Taking the Leap
by Quinn Anderson
Summary: In which John and Sherlock have quite a lot of sex, though they first have to deal with the fact that Sherlock is alive. Oh, and so is Moriarty. Johnlock, Mormon, though really everyone here is gay for everyone else. Starts to have a plot and then gets detoured into the bedroom. Post Reichenbach.
1. Chapter 1

**Taking The Leap **

**Author's Note: **Once upon a time, a girl named Katie (heretherebefandom dot tumblr dot com) and a girl named Quinn (jim-moriarty-in-your-flesh dot tumblr dot com) were very bored and decided to write ask fics back and forth to each other on Tumblr. The next thing they knew, they had 11,000 words of pure smut and a very naughty idea. So, we present to you, a Sherlock x John x Moriarty x Moran Sex-travaganza.

Katie wrote John and Sherlock, and I (Quinn Anderson) wrote Moriarty and Moran. If you're wondering why it switches perspectives about every 200 words, such is the nature of the ask box on tumblr. To see the original posts, go to our tumblrs.

**This will have two parts, both posted here as chapters.**

Enjoy.

...

...

The walk to Bart's was so familiar it was practically automatic. In fact, it took John a moment to realise he was even heading in that direction and a few moments more to realise why. Just an experiment, he told himself, and if the voice in his head sounded an awful lot like Sherlock's, he chose to ignore it. Through the doors, down the hall, up the stairs; one blur of movement that didn't stop until he was there, on the edge. The sky above him was blue and lovely. The pavement below was as dark as his mood. Looking down, he couldn't help but wonder how the fall would feel on this end.

"Careful there, Johnny boy," cooed a sing-song voice. Moriarty giggled when the doctor startled and whirled around. "It's a long way down." He sauntered slowly over, his hands shoved in the pockets of his expensive suit. It was navy blue Versace with high, elegant lapels and a stark white dress shirt underneath. It certainly outclassed John's plaid jumper (really though? Plaid? In the spring?) and faded jeans.

"You," John growled. "You're dead!"

"Clearly not!" Jim twirled mockingly, his arms spread out in a welcoming gesture. "This must feel like returning to the scene of the crime for you, standing right where Sherlock did before he jumped. Bit depressing, don't you think? Knowing you could have saved him and didn't? Knowing you love a dead man?"

"Don't," John hissed out through gritted teeth. "You don't speak about him. Not ever."

Moriarty lifted a hand and rested it delicately across his mouth, reminding John of a perverse rendition of one of those "see no evil, speak no evil, hear no evil" monkeys. When Moriarty took a step forward, John took a reflexive step back, reminding himself belatedly that he was still on the ledge.

This wasn't right. This wasn't possible. He'd seen the crime scene photos himself. No one survived swallowing a gun, just as no one survived a sixty-foot fall.

"You're not really here." John all but whispered. "This isn't real. You're not—"

"Not what, Johnny boy? Not a nightmare? Not you losing your mind? Not the man you'd really like to see come back from the dead?" Jim let his hand fall limply to his side and licked his lips. The pet looked like he was debating between launching himself at him and crumbling to the ground in misery. "Admit it, you're just a tiny bit pleased to see me."

"No!" John barked, though his cheeks reddened tellingly.

Jim's smile was beatific. "Liar. You're ecstatic, because if I'm alive, there's a chance Sherlock is, too."

Everything seemed to slow to a stop, like the world had suddenly disconnected itself from time and space. Like the entire universe had chosen that exact moment to remind John that hope was a beautiful and dangerous thing, that it could come from anywhere, even the treacherous, damaging, lying fucking mouth of James Moriarty, and John would believe it. He was beyond sense and reason, beyond doing anything else.

When he straightened up and whispered weakly, angrily, "Where is he? Just tell me," John blamed the hope.

"Just tell you? _Just tell you?!_" Jim was suddenly screaming, his face twisted into an expression of grotesque rage. "BUT WHERE'S THE FUN IN THAT, MY LOVE?!"

John flinched, and Jim giggled delightedly. He loved the moment when people realised what they were dealing with, shied away from him as they would a madman howling on the streets. That was what he was, after all: the raw, carnal embodiment of human emotion. He was the darkness in every man's heart. The horror, the horror.

"I'm not going to tell you where he is, pet. Unless..." Jim trailed off, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

John hated himself for it, for the sudden, involuntary rush of _God, please, anything, I'll do whatever you want, anything, just please, tell me where he is_, that ran through him at that single, all-consuming word. And he hated himself even more for the words that escaped him next, painful and bitter on the back of his tongue.

"Unless what?"

The look in Jim's eyes was like an addict's being offered a drug, his lips smiling evilly. But unmoving.

"Unless. What?" John hissed again.

Jim smiled in the slow, timid way that made him look deceptively harmless. He stepped closer, knowing John was too eager for his answer to realise the danger he was in.

"Unless, Johnny boy, you can come up with some way to pay me for the information. Perhaps we could have an exchange of sorts."

He relished in the look of confusion that bloomed across John's face. Really, pets were cute and all, but it was irritating how long they took to catch on. Jim was endlessly grateful Seb wasn't anywhere near this slow.

John blinked owlishly. Payment? Exchanges? It was like being doused with cold water. What the fuck was he thinking? This was James Moriarty! The man who was responsible for ruining his life and taking away the one good thing he'd had since being invalided. The man responsible for why John woke up almost every night with Sherlock's name choking him, an image of him falling fresh behind his eyes. Always fresh. And driving him insane. John looked hard at Moriarty. Maybe he was already insane.

He squared his shoulders into a semblance of the proud military posture he'd once borne. Moriarty might have been one of the most frightening human beings—if he could be referred to as such—that he'd ever met, but John was no coward. "What kind of exchange?"

"Oh, nothing unusual," Jim said in a sickeningly sweet voice. "Nothing you'd feel _uncomfortable_ with." He was mimicking the Ice Man on purpose. John's eyes widened, and Jim knew his point had struck home: he knew a lot more about him than John thought. "Sherlock kept you around for a reason, after all. You have your uses, your unique skill sets. I always have need for reliable men who know how to use a gun." His smile turned shrewd, his dark eyes narrow. "I want, in other words, to offer you a job."

"A job." John parroted lamely. The longer John thought about it the crazier it seemed. Was he really considering this? If Sherlock was alive—and as desperate for that as he was, John wasn't exactly certain of the fact—he would never forgive him for this. John wasn't sure he'd be able to forgive himself. But he was treading water here, had been since Sherlock's death, just waiting to drown with him. So what choice did he have really?

"One job." John frowned. "Then you tell me where he is." The second the words were out of his mouth, he felt their impact like a wall of ice, smacking into him, dragging the air from his lungs. He'd just made a proverbial deal with the devil, and even though he couldn't see it, a line had certainly been crossed.

Jim wagged a finger back and forth in John's face. The idiot hadn't even noticed how close they were standing now. Jim didn't feel the slightest bit intimidated by the height advantage John gained from standing on the ledge.

"You don't get to call the shots here, dear. This isn't a negotiation. Do keep in mind I'm holding all the cards. You've nothing to offer me, and I have everything to offer you." He chuckled evilly. "You'll do what I tell you, when I tell you, or you'll never see Sherlock again."

It was like sprinting down a tunnel, knowing there would be a light at the end but not quite believing it when everything around you is so suffocatingly dark. John was desperate, more desperate than he'd ever been, but he wasn't stupid. Reckless maybe. Just being here was reckless. But not stupid.

"Do you have proof?" John whispered, keeping his gaze steady. "Prove you know where he is, prove he's alive, and we have a deal." He offered his hand to Moriarty. It wasn't shaking at all.

Jim smiled. Very good. If the pet had accepted him on only his word, he would have had no choice but to fuck him over, if only to teach him a lesson. Jim took John's hand, almost touched by the gesture. The brave soldier's grip was firm and steady beneath his fingers. Jim couldn't be more delighted. His new toy was turning out to be more interesting than he'd originally thought. Without warning, he jerked John down from the roof ledge. He stumbled but quickly regained his footing and yanked his hand back.

"You want proof?" Jim asked in a sing-song voice. "Take a look at this." He reached into his breast pocket and retrieved a single photograph.

John took it, holding it gingerly between his fingers as though it might crumble to pieces if he weren't careful. It was blurry, probably a still from CCTV footage, but it was good enough. John would recognise him even if the photo had been taken in the dead of night with a disposable camera. It was definitely, indisputably Sherlock. He was exiting a store, wearing sunglasses and a green coat that looked strange on him, considering how accustomed John was to his long black one. John sagged, a breath escaping him that he didn't know he'd been holding.

The photo was dated two days ago. Sherlock was alive.

John looked at Moriarty sharply. "A deal's a deal then."

Jim clapped his hands together and kicked a leg up like a '50s housewife. "Excellent! I knew you'd come around eventually." He replaced the photo in his breast pocket and pulled out his mobile, hitting the number 3 on his speed dial. It only rang once before a gruff male voice answered.

"Seb, we got him." Jim winked at John. "Yes, have the car waiting for us." He rang off without saying goodbye and grinned. "We're going for a little ride."

"Where to?" John asked hesitantly.

Jim giggled again. "Your new home."

"Wait!" John tried, but Moriarty had already turned away, walking in the direction of the roof exit.

"Hang on!" He yelled, practically chasing him down the stairs. "What new home? Where are we going?" Moriarty only chuckled, continuing forward through the front doors of Bart's and out onto the street where a black car stood idle, waiting for them.

"You'll see, Dr John Watson," he offered cryptically, John coming to a halt in front of the car. If he got in, there was no going back. But what did he have to go back to?

Jim got into the car and situated himself, breathing in the musky scent of leather seats and luxury. Sebastian was sat in the driver's seat and turned around long enough to give him a toothy grin. John studied him from the pavement. He was blond with bright blue eyes, tan skin, and a large, solid build, from what John could tell. He also distantly noted that he was quite attractive.

"Hullo, darling," Jim drawled to his lover-and-right-hand-man. Then he realised John wasn't climbing in after him. He leaned over and fixed the doctor in a pointed look. "I know that pathetic bedsit of yours isn't what's holding you back. Could anywhere I might take you be worse than that? Get in the car."

Moment of truth, then, John thought to himself, resigned himself to it, really. He'd come this far, jumped directly into the line of fire just for the possibility of seeing Sherlock again. It wasn't like he had a choice, not anymore. Not that he ever really did, not once Sherlock still being alive became an option.

"Right," John cleared his throat, sliding into the back next to Moriarty, trying not to feel too unnerved by the close proximity. He closed the door and attempted to ignore how trapped he felt as they pulled away from Bart's.

Oh, how _cute_. John was clearly uncomfortable, making sure his body absolutely didn't touch Jim's. Unfortunately for him, the consulting criminal loved to play both the devil and the devil's advocate. Jim slid over, not bothering to be subtle about it, until their thighs were touching. John jumped and looked at him, realising his mistake only when their faces came within inches of each other. He shifted almost imperceptibly, but Jim could tell from the steely reserve in his eyes that he would refuse to move away.

"What's the matter, Johnny Boy?" Jim purred, leaning even closer. "Do I make you nervous?"

John narrowed his eyes. "Afghanistan made me nervous. Having a bomb strapped to my chest made me nervous. This is annoying at best." He could practically feel the heat radiating off of Moriarty's body; his whole side was engulfed in it, magnified by closeness. But he wouldn't let the bastard see him squirm, so he leaned back, feigning indifference, even going so far as to sling an arm along the back of the seat in a comfortable way, tapping out a rhythm on the hard, black leather.

"So what's next then?" he asked lightly.

Jim couldn't be more pleased. He loved it when they pushed back, when they tried to struggle against him and never guessed they were wasting their time. Jim turned to Seb, who was watching the exchange in the rearview mirror with a raised eyebrow.

"I pay you to drive and give fantastic blow jobs," Jim purred. "I suggest you do one of those things immediately before I start to feel cross with you."

Seb saluted and shifted the car into drive, pulling away from the kerb.

Jim turned back to John. "Tell me something, John. Have you ever been with a man?"

John couldn't have stifled the cringe that ran through him even if he'd wanted to, the question causing him to recoil slightly before he could stop himself. Though he was certain Moriarty had noticed, John managed to compose himself quickly, settling his arm back down behind Moriarty's head. "Never really crossed my mind." Which wasn't exactly true. Not that he'd ever admit it to himself, but it had crossed his mind plenty.

With Sherlock.

"Oh, come on," Jim said, his voice taking on an edge of anger. "I don't believe that for a second. In all your life, you've never once entertained the idea of being with a man? Not when you were at university and everyone around you was shagging everyone else? Not when you were in a trench in the desert, fighting for your life, plagued by the knowledge that any day could be your last and everyone around you was male?" Jim reached up and gently stroked John's wrist. "Stop boring me."

"Don't," John hissed involuntarily, jerking his hand just out of the way of Moriarty's touch. But he knew what it meant when the bastard got bored, knew what it could mean for him. And for Sherlock. So he put his hand back where it was, thinking it through, ignoring the way his stomach clenched as he said, "I mean… I don't. Think about it. Not anymore." The look in Moriarty's eyes told him it wasn't enough, so he looked out the window and added, "There's only ever been one man… I guess."

"Interesting!" Jim said, raising his voice and moving closer until the whole sides of their bodies were touching. He went back to stroking John's wrist. "I can only assume you're talking about your former flatmate, disappointed as I am that you don't mean me." He leant in, letting his breath brush John's ear. The soldier did an impressive job of ignoring his proximity. "Did you ever tell him how you felt? How do you think he would have taken the news? Sherlock, the man who thinks love is a chemical defect?"

The desire to make something up was fierce and bitter on his tongue, but it was hard to process anything beyond the sick feeling of Moriarty's breath travelling down his neck, his light touches raising goose bumps on John's arms.

"He doesn't think that way," John replied eventually, voice thick and heavy with truth. "So I never brought it up." John glanced at the back of Sebastian's head. The comment about blowjobs from earlier was weighing on his mind. "And despite popular opinion, I'm not gay.

"You're telling me," Jim said slowly, mockingly, "that you developed a sexual, potentially romantic interest in a man, and that doesn't make you gay?" Just to be a dick, he swooped in and raked his teeth over John's earlobe, moving back before he could react. "Come now, John, that at least makes you bisexual. I'll even settle for Sherlock-sexual. I have a touch of that myself, you know." He glanced at the driver. "Sorry, Seb, but you know it's true." His right-hand man met his eyes in the mirror and nodded obediently.

John did as best he could to swallow back the shiver that ran through him at the feel of Moriarty's teeth nipping at one of his most sensitive weak spot. Damn him. His body would always react to that, apparently, no matter who did the biting. John cleared his throat, offering a sardonic chuckle and clipped words in the hope that Moriarty hadn't noticed. Much. "Sherlock-sexual, huh? Can't deny that, I guess. But he's it, you know? No other man—" At the look on Moriarty's face, John froze.

Jim's expression had twisted into a mask of gruesome anger. "Stop. Lying," he bit out, his murderous look daring John to push him further. "I know you, pet. I know your history. I know about the fling you had with your professor when you were at Bart's and the one with the corporal while you were enlisted." He took a leap of faith and opted for a bold gesture. In one swift movement he swung around and slid into John's lap. "And you've always had a thing for geniuses. Namely, Sherlock and myself."

"H-How…?" John paled, knowing there was no point in asking. They were too much alike, him and Sherlock. How they knew things, how they could practically read a life story just by looking in your eyes. There was no denying anything with them. And with Moriarty pressed up against him, straddling his lap in that way that John's body couldn't help but respond to, there was no denying him now either. Yet still, his mouth tried to form words. "And what makes you think I've ever been attracted to you?"

"Come now, darling, it's child's play." Jim smoothed his hands down John's jumper. It wasn't nearly as appealing as the designer suit Jim was wearing, but the former soldier filled it out nicely. "I saw it in your face the first time I walked into that laboratory at Bart's. Your gaze lingered on all the places that matter." Jim ducked forward and sucked John's earlobe into his mouth, nipping it. "And you looked just a little too pleased when Sherlock pronounced me gay, which I am by the way."

John really didn't mean tilt into that touch, eyes rolling back into his head. He really, truly, honestly didn't mean to, but Moriarty's teeth were scraping just so along sensitive skin and _God,_ he just… What had he said just then? Something about being gay.

"You are?" John muttered lamely, licking his lips. "I suppose that… Well, that makes sense then. Considering." John cleared his throat again, desperately trying to inch the man off his thighs, which only served to add blessed but unfortunate friction.

Jim smirked. This was far too easy. John had placed his hands on his hips, initially trying to shove him off, but as Jim pressed closer, he was now just gripping him, obviously itching to press their groins flush together. He could feel his blood starting to bubble pleasantly just beneath the surface of his skin.

"Yes, I'm not really known for my subtlety," Jim murmured around the earlobe he was intermittently biting and licking. He popped off long enough to glance over his shoulder. "Am I, Seb?"

The blond looked back briefly before returning his eyes to the road. "No, sir. Most definitely not."

With his ear free of Moriarty's too talented teeth—and tongue—John managed to blink away some of the haziness clouding his judgment, shaking his head and swallowing thickly. This was so wrong. Sick and wrong and the sort of dangerous he'd never been trained to deal with. He could feel Moriarty against him like a mass of pure heat, could feel each breath ghosting against his skin, each movement of the bastard's hands.

And like the worst kind of nightmare, he could feel himself getting hard.

"I'd ask if you're pleased to see me, but I can clearly feel that you are." Jim emphasised his point by grinding their hips slowly together. He'd been in a semi-erect state ever since they'd got in the car, and it felt obscenely good to finally do something about it. Jim had a thing for men who knew how to use a gun. "My, my, what would your darling Sherlock say?"

Before Jim could react, he was thrown violently onto his back, sprawled across the leather seats with both hands trapped above his head and John looming over him.

"Shut up!" John growled fiercely.

Whether he'd pinned the man beneath him to keep them apart or to force them closer together, John wasn't entirely sure. All he knew was this was spiraling out of control, and he had no idea how to stop it. Or even if he wanted to. "Just shut up," John repeated, scanning Moriarty's devious, smug, too damn attractive—what?—face. Nothing made sense anymore. He was doing this for Sherlock… Right?

"Just shut. The fuck. Up," he growled out again before forcing their lips together in a fierce and painful kiss.

Jim moaned against John's lips and practically melted into the seat. God, that was hot. He wriggled his wrists, but John held firm, pinning him in place as he forced his mouth open and simply invaded with his tongue and teeth. He was lucky he'd done so, too, because Seb had trained a pistol at his head the second he'd forced him down. If he'd tried to hurt Jim, he'd already be dead. Jim returned the kiss with enthusiasm, letting his tongue slide wetly into the other man's mouth.

Jim lifted a leg and wrapped it around John, pulling their hips together. The man above him was all compact muscle and impossible warmth. It was almost suffocating, the way he held Jim down, smothered him with his body, stole the air from his lungs with his lips and tongue. It was impossibly, incomprehensively erotic.

John was being overcome by a similar set of unexpected feelings. It was like an electric shock straight to his groin, the sudden pressure between them maddening. Moriarty tilted his head just enough to reveal a strip of creamy neck that John felt no desire to refuse, breaking the kiss and latching on, sucking, biting with alacrity. Dear God, was he really doing this? John worked his way lower, teeth scraping over Moriarty's Adam's apple before clamping down on the knot of his tie, pulling it loose so he could work on the buttons of his collar.

It couldn't be possible to feel this good. There had to be some other explanation.

"Did you drug me?" John breathed without meaning to. He was sliding his hands down, down, down to the slender chest beneath him.

Though Jim did miss the feeling of being forcibly held in place, the release of his wrists meant he was finally free to touch all the warm, sun-kissed skin he wanted. He had his hands under John's jumper and raking over his torso in no time. He moaned obscenely as John worked at his throat, sending shivers of pleasure through him.

He chuckled at John's question and answered, "Of course not, darling. I want you to be fully cognizant of both your actions and the fact that you consented willingly."

John tensed. This wasn't supposed to be willing at all, let alone like this, this need that ran hot and demanding through him. It was like he was on autopilot, his fingers unbuttoning and pulling open Moriarty's jacket and shirt, kissing, licking, nipping at his collarbone. The familiar sound of a gun being disengaged caught his attention, eyes glancing up at Sebastian as he returned a pistol to somewhere out of sight, and godammit all, that just made him harder. What the fuck was wrong with him? He rocked his hips in distraction, nearly swooning at the sharp friction.

Loud moans were pouring from Jim's lips as John ground against him, making him writhe as pleasure coiled low in his belly. He felt John stop kissing his chest and opened his eyes. John was watching Seb put the gun away with obvious interest. Jim felt a sharp surge of arousal. Fuck, the gun turned him on. John was turning out to be _delicious_.

"Seb," Jim said in a commanding tone, and without another word his right-hand man once again trained the pistol at John's head over his shoulder, his eyes only barely managing to stay on the road.

John moaned involuntarily and sped his hips up. "Fuck." His hands fumbled with the zip of Moriarty's fly. The gun on him was a whole other level of kinky he never knew he wanted, needed.

"What then?" he breathed to Moriarty, sounding a touch irritated. "Did you read that in the bloody shift of my eyes?" He hissed as the trousers opened and snaked a hand inside. "The twitch of my lips?" He passed the waistband of Moriarty's pants. "Bloody the same, the both of you." He wrapped his hands around Moriarty's cock, giving it a stroke. He was like a second Sherlock, except all John saw, all he felt, was Jim.

Jim shuddered as John's strong fingers wrapped around him. Oh yes, the doctor definitely knew his way around a cock.

Jim panted out his answer, unable to keep his voice steady as John wrung pleasure from his body. "To be fair, it wasn't a difficult leap." John stroked him steadily, and when he twisted his wrist at the head, Jim really lost it, grabbing his shoulders and groaning luxuriously. "Ah yes, just like that. Fuck, yes, John." Jim shoved a hand between them, eager to return the favour.

John nearly bit clean through his lip at the feel of Moriarty's hand inching between them, cupping the aching bulge in his trousers for a moment before working them down his thighs. The first blast of cold air on his too-hot, sensitive skin ripped a gasp from his throat. The feel of those torturous fingers wrapping around his length almost did him in.

John bucked into that grasp too eagerly. "I fucking hate you," he growled against Moriarty's lips, crushing them, biting them. "You know that?"

Jim shivered beneath the force of John's emotion, his voice raw with it even as he kissed the breath from his lungs. "Oh, I know you do, darling." Jim paused to moan wantonly as John gave him a firm squeeze. The man was so good at this, it was practically unfair. "You should hate yourself, though. You're getting off with the man who forced the love of your life to fake his death. Let's not forget that fact."

Jim threw his head back and laughed as John stiffened. "Bit late for remorse now, love."

_He's right, you know._ The thought was loud and persistent and mocking in John's ears. He was right, and it felt wonderful-terrible-perfect-horrible, and it killed him because he was so close to coming undone in Moriarty's grasp, nowhere near stopping the rhythm his own hand working on the man's cock. But he had another hand, didn't he? John looked from Moriarty to Sebastian's gun and back, working his free hand up Moriarty's bare chest to wrap shaking fingers around his throat.

The sound of a gun cocking was deafening. For a moment, all three men froze, wondering who was going to make the first move. It ended up being Jim. He started stroking John again and looked at Seb. "It's okay. If he does it just right, I'll come even harder this way." Jim fixed his intense, black gaze on John's contorted face. Poor doggie was so conflicted. And with due cause. "Go ahead, Johnny boy. Squeeze."

John swallowed audibly, closed his eyes, and obeyed, both of his hands working on Moriarty. He could barely think anymore as it was, all manner of conflicting signals making his vision fuzzy, red around the edges, his hands tightening in both directions, but not enough. Not nearly enough. He wanted to kill him. He wanted to fuck him. He wanted to skin him bit by bit until he told him where Sherlock was and then make him into shoes. He wanted to forget about everything and just let himself be fucked. Exhaling harsh breaths through clenched teeth, John cut off the last of Moriarty's air.

Jim very nearly swooned. This was what he lived for, the rush of life and death and sex and humanity and the demonic side every man carried in his heart. John Watson was a good man, and here he was, getting Jim off and choking him at the same time. The loss of airflow to Jim's brain made him tingle, made his blood hot and his body even hotter. The oxygen deprivation was dizzying, and it was all he could do to keep pumping John's cock as he felt his orgasm looming just out of reach. Oh God, this was good.

At some point, John had buried his face into Moriarty's shoulder, the hand around the man's neck trembling with the force of the strangle. Though whether the force to end it or the force of holding back, John was beyond trying to decide anymore. All he knew, all that mattered in the whole universe was how close, so fucking close, he was to coming, just a little bit more, right there, but Moriarty's hand faltered, loosened just a bit. John saw his eyes roll back, his smirk twitch, and fuck it all, John let go.

The second John's fingers loosened, Jim sucked in a desperate breath. The rush of blood and oxygen left him senseless, not so much moaning as babbling some incoherent mixture of "Fuck" and "John" and "God", which to him at that moment were all synonymous. With a shaking hand and stuttering hips, he lined their erections up and took them both in his left hand, stroking quickly. He could taste how close they both were in the salty musk of the air.

"Come, John," he murmured, "all over me. Now."

For some reason the sound of Moriarty's words, his name on those treacherous, horrible, fucking perfect lips, went straight to his core, a flash of heat that threatened to consume him, and God the feel of their cocks pressed together like that and, and, and—"Fuck, Jim, God, yes!" He was coming, harder than he'd ever come in his life, spilling painfully hot between them, against both their pelvises with as close as they were, and all he could do was press closer, hold tighter, and keep a fumbling hand on Moriarty's cock.

Jim's whole body was shaking as he felt John's hot release spatter on him, all the way up to sweaty chest. His arms fell limply to his side. John, ever the angel, was fumbling for his cock, not properly stroking him, but after that display it was all Jim needed. Two half-strokes later, he came so hard he saw stars. It ached, pain and pleasure in glorious harmony. The world stuttered into white before flashing back in an array of too-bright colours that nearly blinded him. For a moment, there was nothing but their panting breaths and the all-consuming haze of post-coital glow.

When his senses cleared, he realised the car had stopped.

Someone opened the car door for them.

John looked blearily behind him and froze. Horror seeped into his veins like ice water. He'd know those pale eyes and black curls anywhere.

It was Sherlock, his face inexplicably blank as he looked in on the debauched scene.


	2. Chapter 2

**Taking The Leap **

**Part II. Written by Katie and Quinn. Katie did the John/Sherlock parts, and I did Jim/Sebastian.**

**Warning: Gay porn ahoy! Foursome off the starboard bow!**

**...**

**...**

John could feel his heart sputtering in his chest, his ragged breaths literally shaking his entire body. He'd never felt so perfectly alive and horribly ashamed and impossibly angry and wonderfully satisfied all in one. He looked down at Moriarty and was taken aback by the look on his face. Pleased, yes, to be expected, but more than that. He was genuinely smiling.

"John?" The voice was unmistakable. It was the same deep baritone that had both infuriated and intoxicated him more times than he could recall. John's whole body tensed. How had he let this happen? He scrambled to pull his pants and trousers up, trying to cover what was obvious to everyone.

It started as a small trickle, Jim's giggle. Just a light, bubbly sound. But the trickle burst forth into a stream and then a river and then a whole bloody ocean as Jim laughed and flailed on the seat. God, this was too perfect.

"John," he said between breathless chuckles, "I'd like to introduce you to my most recent flatmate, though I do believe you're already acquainted. This," he wiggled his bare hips and flaccid cock, "is Sherlock Holmes. Alive and well and staying with Seb and me for the moment."

"What?" John's mouth fell slack, trying to form a coherent sentence, a coherent _thought_, but nothing about this was even mildly coherent. Eyes darting back and forth between Sherlock and Moriarty, John tried to wipe himself off, knowing there was no getting past the semen coating his chest, the struggle it was taking to get his trousers back up. He half-fell out of the car, bumbling to his feet once he hit the pavement. "I don't…" He trailed off and then glared at Moriarty, yelling, "What the fuck is going on?!"

Sherlock was mercifully silent during all this, though knowing his social ineptitude, Jim understood it was more shock than tact.

"What's going on is Sherlock and I 'killed' ourselves on that rooftop and then met up for a nice chat over tea and biscuits. We knew our rivalry could only go one of two ways: our deaths or a truce, and so we settled on not ridding the world of the only true genius left in it." Jim drew a handkerchief from his pocket and began mopping himself up, not bothering to be subtle about it as he tucked his spent cock back into his trousers. "And so here we are."

"But I…" John felt his face growing hot, his head practically spinning. He turned to Sherlock, more hurt coming out in his voice than he would have liked, but there was definitely enough rage to make up for it. "You were here? This whole time… With him?" He pointed hard at Moriarty, though they both certainly knew who he meant. "And you never fucking told me?!" Sherlock opened his mouth to speak but John stabbed for home. "I was going to kill myself over you, you selfish, fucking—!" He couldn't even finish the thought.

Jim slowly buttoned his shirt, fixed his collar and his suit, and sat up. "Not just kill yourself, Johnny boy. You were going to work for me, and work me, I might add, for him. I'm guessing you were ready to do just about anything, your grief was so overwhelming." He smiled, once again the tidy businessman in his designer suit. He smoothed his disheveled hair and got out of the car. "But no need for that, really, now that we're all here. What a joyful reunion, except for that whole we just fucked thing."

Hearing it out loud was like being shot. It was a brutal reminder that yes, that did indeed just happen; there's no use pretending, John, because the evidence is all over your shirt. But what was so, so much worse was Sherlock's reaction to those words. Or more importantly, his lack of reaction. His face was as smooth as the white marble it so closely resembled. He looked as cool and impassive as ever.

"Indifference?" John whispered. "Jesus, Sherlock, really?" John was drowning now, in his own words, his actions, the weight of everything he thought he knew. "All of this, and you—"

But Sherlock was too busy punching Moriarty in the face to listen.

It seemed no matter how controlled he looked on the outside, that was hardly how he felt on the inside.

Jim let the blow happen. It was deserved, really, considering Sherlock's only condition before they became flatmates was, "You leave John alone." Jim had decidedly broken that clause, and so he deserved the punch to the face he received.

He staunched his bleeding lip with the white kerchief he kept in his breast pocket and rolled his eyes. "Shouldn't you two be discussing the fact that everyone here is gay for everyone else rather than hitting me? Actually, scratch that. John, you owe Sherlock a punch. He made you grieve unnecessarily."

Jim was right, and John knew it. The bastard kept pouring words out of his mouth that John didn't want to hear but needed to hear because he was right. Maybe punching Sherlock would make him feel better, but his hands hung uselessly at his sides.

"All this time," John repeated lamely. All this time, no letter, no post-it note on the door to their flat, nothing. He'd wasted all this time mourning a living man. All this time, and he never realised how much he loved him. Without warning, John grabbed Sherlock by the collar and kissed him.

Sebastian had parked the car and walked up to join them in the meantime. His blond hair was mussed in a boyish way, and his simple shirt and jeans hugged his muscular form impeccably. He still had his pistol ready, though now it hung at his side, though he had a finger on the trigger.

Jim watched Sherlock and John kiss impassively. He'd anticipated this from the moment he'd set foot on the roof. What a cute ending to a disgustingly romantic tale. He hated happy endings. They were so dull. In this case, however, the story was far from over.

"So," he asked when John and Sherlock paused for air, "who's up for a four-way?"

"Excuse me?" John blanched at the exact same moment Sherlock wrapped an arm possessively around his waist, pulling him close.

"Oh, come now," Jim purred. "After that little taste of heaven, you're not aching for more?"

John growled. "Now look here—"

To everyone's surprise, Sherlock interrupted, "Depends."

John blinked, trying to wiggle out of Sherlock's grasp. "Wha-? Depends? Are you shitting me?" Even Moriarty seemed almost surprised by Sherlock's response, though he hid it well.

John batted Sherlock's arms away and gaped at him. "No! I'm still pissed off at you." He looked at Moriarty. "And you're insane!"

Jim, to his credit, made a valiant attempt at concealing his shock. It seemed Sherlock was a touch kinkier than he'd originally assumed, which was a good thing considering his new boyfriend liked to fuck with a loaded gun aimed at his head.

"Interesting," he said in a lilting voice, wrapping an arm around Seb. "What say you, darling? Did our lascivious display in the car whet your appetite?"

The blond turned to him, his weathered face neutral, and said, "I'm game."

Jim grinned. "All right, Sherlock, we'll bite. What's it depend on?"

Sherlock spared one look at John, the look sending a shiver down his spine, before he turned his full attention back to Moriarty. "After this, John will remain completely outside your radar." Moriarty opened his mouth to object, but Sherlock held up a hand. "And," He looked back at John, eyes fierce, "no one touches him unless I say so."

John swallowed. He couldn't deny the words turned him on, but this was bat-shit crazy. "I'm right here, you know." He glared. "Do I get any say in this at all?"

All three other men answered John simultaneously: "NO."

John scowled and folded his arms over his chest.

"Oh, come now, Johnny boy," Jim taunted, glancing between him and Sherlock. "You've already got off with one of us, and I know you're keen on another. What's the harm in exploring a little group fun before you're shuttered off into the dull annals of monogamy for the rest of your life?" Jim cackled and rubbed his hands greedily together. "All right, Sherly. You've got yourself a deal."

The next few minutes were a blur of movement and action that shouldn't have made any sense: Moriarty ushered them all into a large modern building, up the stairs, and into a posh flat. He then offered to make everyone tea while Sebastian politely took their coats. Sherlock was acting strangely because, well, he was alive, and John was about to apparently take part in an orgy of deranged and undeniably orgasmic proportions. And he'd be lying if he said it was entirely against his will. Or that he wasn't looking forward to whatever these men had in mind for him. Jesus.

Jim poured Seb his customary cuppa—of course he knew precisely how his long-term lover took his tea–and handed him a steaming mug, stretching up on his tiptoes to peck him affectionately on the cheek. "Did you like watching me in the car, darling? I bet it was almost impossible to keep your eyes on the road."

Seb grinned wolfishly, which was all the answer Jim needed. He glanced over the taller man's shoulder and swore. Sherlock and John were already snogging on the sofa. "Oi! Wait for the rest of us, thank you very much!"

Sherlock had all but pounced on John, giving him no time to react. Well, beyond tangling his fingers in Sherlock's curly black hair and snogging him right back. He barely heard Moriarty's words or the sound of the two criminals approaching them. There was a prickly feeling on the back of his neck that said they were watching them. But then Sherlock's hands were roaming, relieving John of his already come-stained jumper so he could explore hot, bare skin. Before he could think too much, John started doing the same.

"Look at 'em," Jim said in an affectionate tone. "Been apart for nearly three years, and now they can't go three minutes without jumping each other's bones." He strode forward, grabbed a handful of Sherlock's curls and yanked. Unsurprisingly, Sherlock pulled away from John with an obscene moan. Jim smirked. He knew he'd deduced that correctly. "If I may cut in, I'm eager to sample the other half of this couple." He licked his lips, bent down, and crushed his mouth to Sherlock's. The feel of his satin lips was every bit as heavenly as he'd imagined.

It was mesmerising, Sherlock's wanton reaction to Moriarty, the man milking sounds out of Sherlock that John had never known a human being couple produce. Now that he'd heard them, he wanted to make them, wanted Sherlock to be moaning into his mouth. Hell, he wanted Moriarty's hand back on his cock and Sebastian's gun against his head, and it was overwhelming how much he wanted, needed.

He reached for Moriarty, but Sherlock yanked his hand away. "Not until I say so, remember?" He growled around Jim's lips.

Jim shot John a smug look. "Listen to your master, little doggie, and wait your turn." He went back to kissing Sherlock like he needed the man's lips to survive. Jim slid eagerly into his lap, straddling his narrow hips just as he'd done to John in the car. Sherlock's body felt very different under his fingers, however, all harsh angles and hardly any fat. His fingers were the best part, however, dancing nimbly over Jim in a way that told him Sherlock had already deduced his erogenous zones.

All John could do was scoot back against the far end of the couch and watch. Not that watching was all that bad. In fact, the sight of Sherlock writhing under Moriarty, both of them polar opposites and yet exactly the same, moaning practically in unison, it was enough that John felt about ready to bust through his trousers. It was so distracting, it took two tries to register that Sherlock had ordered Sebastian to do something and one try more to realise someone was grabbing him by the shoulders and holding him down for a kiss.

Sebastian was a quiet man. It wasn't a quality he was born with but rather one he'd developed during his army days. He'd had to spend many long hours, sometimes days, deathly silent so as not to alert enemy troops to his presence. It worked well both professionally and personally, as Jim was quite chatty. When it came to sex, however, he was so loud it was obscene, which was why, when John began kissing the life out of him, the flat filled with the sound of his unrestrained moaning.

Oh God, and weren't the sounds coming out of the sniper's mouth an instant turn on. Combined with the harsh work of his lips on John's, the ironclad grip of rough callused hands sliding up to his wrists, and the fact that Sebastian had been on the firing end of more than one attempt on John's life, the man was walking erotica. John grabbed Sebastian's hands in both of his and reverently dragged his fingers down his palms. John knew these hands. He had these hands himself. They were the wizened hands of a military man, a disciplined killer that hardly belonged in the urban jungle in which they now found themselves. And fuck, John was desperate for it now, hips arching up at nothing. Until he realised he could shimmy the lower half of him down the couch just enough, and his crotch would be pressed firmly against Moriarty's arse.

Jim groaned against Sherlock's plump lips when he felt the pet pressing against him, half-hard already and clearly aching for more. Along with the sound of his lover's voice crying out in ecstasy and the fact that Sherlock's nimble fingers were currently diving into his pants, Jim was becoming ridiculously aroused in what had to be record time. He started rocking his hips, first forward so he pressed flush against Sherlock and then backwards so his arse pressed against John's hot crotch.

Oh, that was the ticket right there, John thought. He was all but panting into Sebastian's mouth, rolling his hips in a rhythm that met with each of Moriarty's backwards movements. But it was slow going, leaving him painfully hard and nowhere near completion. He wanted to touch. He ached to touch. Someone, anyone.

"Sherlock, please," he heard himself moan as if disconnected, his voice alien and needy, pleading against Seb's lips. "Sherlock… Sherlock, let me…" He balled his hands into tight fists.

Jim giggled evilly and delved his tongue into Sherlock's mouth in a way that prevented him from answering for a full 30 seconds. Behind him, he could feel John's movements getting frenetic. He was obviously gasping for it, and his arousal created a feedback loop that spurred Jim's own arousal higher. Finally, he broke away from Sherlock with an obscene wet sound and said, "So, gentlemen, what's it going to be? Shall we all stay here and rut on this sofa like beasts or move things to the bedroom?"

"Bedroom," John moaned immediately, biting probably too hard at Sebastian's bottom lip before breaking away. He did his best to raise his head without dislocating his shoulders, attempting to grab either Moriarty or Sherlock's attention. "Do I get a vote? I vote bedroom."

He heard Sherlock chuckle but Moriarty was still keeping him too busy to properly respond. And Jesus if John didn't want to be in the middle of that.

Thankfully, Sherlock finally managed to pause his own snogging long enough to say, "Agreed."

"Fuckin' aces," Jim said with enthusiasm as he stood. Sherlock had managed to work his silk tie off and open his jacket and shirt, which he quickly let slide to the floor. He held out a hand to Seb and hauled the man up when he took it. "It's this way." He led Seb and consequently Sherlock and John to the bedroom they shared. The king-sized (of course) bed was fitted with black silk sheets that Sherlock snorted at when he saw them. He'd never seen the inside of their room before, despite living in the spare bedroom.

"Hey," Jim said defensively, "they were on sale. Granted, they still cost a thousand quid." He pushed Seb down on the bed and quickly climbed on top of him, settling on top of his hips in a way that was too practiced to be unfamiliar.

It was like walking into a dream, John thought, all hazy around the edges and not quite believable. Especially considering that an hour ago he'd thought half the room was dead. It would have been a nightmare then, this scenario. But now, he reached out to touch Moriarty's hips, to pull the clothes off him because there were still far too many clothes on everyone, and stopped. He looked probably too desperately over at Sherlock, heard the plea in his own voice as he asked, "Can I?" He wanted to flinch at the idea of asking permission, but right now he'd do anything to make sure this didn't stop as abruptly as it'd started.

Sherlock and John were both motionless as the detective considered his answer, but Jim wasn't. He made quick work of the faded graphic tee Seb was wearing, along with his belt and jeans. The man was panting beneath him, rock hard and clad in nothing but his blue boxers. Jim palmed his clothed erection, and the subsequent loud moan that poured from him startled Sherlock and John from their silent standoff.

"All right, John," Sherlock finally answered. "You can touch Seb and me, but not Jim. Jim, however, is permitted to touch you."

John couldn't help but shiver at that, licking his lips. He already knew the feel of Moriarty's—no, Jim now. There was no point pretending anymore—Jim's hands on his body like a craving. Lamely, John realised he was still reaching for Jim and dropped his hands, turning instead to Sherlock. It was like changing channels, from needing to be touched to needing _to_ touch. But all that was left on Sherlock were his trousers, so almost reflexively, John dropped to his knees in front of him.

Jim's hands were working slowly over Seb's body, mapping out the familiar flesh as he'd done a hundred times before and wringing low, rapacious moans from his lips. Jim's head, however, was craned around so he could watch as John fell deliciously to his knees in front of Sherlock. With shaking hands, John reached up and undid Sherlock's belt, button, and zip, and God, if that wasn't the hottest thing Jim had ever seen. When John tugged down his trousers and pants, Jim actually moaned involuntarily.

Even in the melee of sensation and sound and the heady aroma of sex, Jim's moan was like a spark of heat to John's very core, making his eyes roll back, his mouth water, his hand wrap confidently at first around the base of Sherlock's cock, but that's where he paused. Jim had been right about the few gay experiences in his life, but he'd always been on the receiving end. When he glanced up, though, and saw the look on Sherlock's face, nothing could have stopped John from swallowing him whole.

Jim stood up from the bed, undoing his own trousers and stepping out of them. He was now clad only in his pants, and when he scrambled back onto Seb and brought their hot groins together, it made them both ache for more. "Want to face the action, love?" he asked him before nudging Seb over until they were lying across the foot of the bed. Now they could both watch as John gave Sherlock what could only be termed an enthusiastic blowjob, and Sherlock buried his long fingers in his hair, obviously biting back moans.

John never thought he could enjoy this so much. Not the sex; he had always loved sex, but this, having Sherlock's cock heavy against his tongue, John's lips wrapping around hard flesh and hot skin, sucking the way he liked being sucked, massaging the head with his tongue the way he remembered made his own knees weak. He snaked a hand between Sherlock's legs and massaged lightly at the velvety skin of his balls, the fingers in John's hair tightening their grip deliciously.

Jim moaned appreciatively as he watched John work Sherlock with his mouth. The detective was making delicious little noises of pleasure that shot straight between Jim's legs. He rutted his hips against Seb's in time to the bobbing of John's head, and his lover gripped his hips tightly. Seb had his head thrown back and his eyes clenched shut. Jim dragged his hands down his toned torso before turning back to the others. "You boys should move onto the bed. You'll be more comfortable."

John moaned around Sherlock's length at the idea, cheeks hollowing as he sucked once more at the head before releasing him with an audible pop. The look he gave Sherlock was questioning, as if asking his permission. He'd never considered himself the submissive type but something about this situation made him want to be told to touch, be touched, fuck, be fucked. John shivered, still watching Sherlock from his knees, the man's lips parting. Eyes half lidded, Sherlock pulled John to his feet.

Jim shivered with delight as he watched the other couple move over to the bed. He grabbed John's wrist once it was close enough and drew him down next to Seb. Then he grabbed Sherlock and positioned him so he was straddling John in much the same way he was straddling Seb. "There we go," Jim said coyly. "Now the blonds are all cozy and the brunets can have their fun on top." He grabbed Sherlock's chin and kissed him passionately, his hips still moving against Seb's in an obscene way.

John was starting to wonder how he'd gone so long without this. Not just being pressed against Sherlock in all the right places, but being a part of this, this deranged orgy of madmen and criminals and sociopaths and geniuses and him, a simple army doctor who happened to be at the right place at the right time when the right man had needed a flat share. Not that he minded, of course. Not if it meant he got to grip bruises into Sherlock's hips and grind his crotch against bare, stiff heat.

Sebastian had never been devoted to a man as thoroughly as he was to Jim. He would kill for him, would die for him, and he spent quite a bit of time making sure the other employees knew damn well they were never going to get the joy of touching Jim as Seb did. But when Jim wanted to play with others, he was strangely okay with both letting that happen and playing himself, so long as the order came from the boss himself. He could even admit, on certain occasions, to wanting very much to play with Jim's toys. That was why when John turned to him and fixed him in a gaze so heated it bordered on scorching, it was all Seb could do not to quiver. He brought their lips together in a deep, wet kiss. The men on top of them were thrusting and touching and stroking, and the whole thing was so perfect and wrong and incredible. He was moving on autopilot, his body seeking the pleasure it so desperately needed.

John let Seb's tongue part his lips, sucking it greedily into his mouth in a kiss that was all wet heat and the occasional click of teeth. John broke away just long enough to worry at Seb's bottom lip, reveling in the moan the man repaid him with. It was dizzying, this. Having Sherlock rubbing up against him in a way that was practically teasing with that just-not-quite-enough amount of friction and nearly inhaling the same breath as Seb with each kiss.

"I don't care with who," John groaned, "but can we please start fucking now?"

Jim quivered at the guttural words, said with so much need and yet such military authority behind them. God, he loved enlisted men. He turned to Sherlock, currently on top his own man, and said, "Here's how I see it: John, on his back with your cock in his arse, me behind you with me in yours, and Sebastian with his in mine. We can all fuck each other at once via fucking our own." Jim couldn't help but smirk at the fact that all three other men shuddered at his words.

John's cock literally twitched response.

"Yeah, that." He cleared his throat, locking eyes with Sherlock and swallowing hard. "That sounds good. Might be a bit rough with my trousers still on though."

Sherlock grinned in the way that always made something tighten in John's chest. Something akin to pride and amusement and, in this situation, no small amount of arousal. "Best relieve you of them then, I think." He nodded matter-of-factly, and as if on cue, all remaining clothing was hastily abandoned.

Jim looked at Seb, not even needing to speak to give the command. The sniper nodded and did as he was not-quite-told, rolling off the bed and moving to the nightstand. From within it, he produced lube and about a dozen condoms, enough to fuel an entire night of debauchery if they wished. Jim kissed him languidly when he returned, knowing the other two men were watching them with obvious hunger. He could feel their gaze on him even now.

"All right," Jim said when he broke away, "lube for everyone!"

John couldn't help himself, actually stopping all movement just long enough to raise an eyebrow at Jim and laugh. What was his life now that the man who'd nearly blown him up was showering them with condoms and lube with a damn near theatrical flair of enthusiasm?

When all three men looked to him expectantly, John sat up. "All right then." He picked up a condom and ripped it open with his teeth. "When in Rome." Wasting no time, John rolled the condom over Sherlock's cock, giving it a stroke for good measure.

Jim giggled, clapping his hands excitedly together. Now the real fun would begin. While John stroked Sherlock to full hardness and lubed him up, Jim began preparing John with practiced ease. He slipped one finger slowly into his entrance, then two with scissoring motions, and finally a third.

John was moaning and writhing as he opened him up. "Cock hungry slut," Jim muttered, but his tone was affectionate. He watched with greedy eyes as John spread his thighs, planting his feet on the mattress. Sherlock was looking at him like he wanted to swallow him whole. Jim was expecting a bit of preamble, but to his surprise, Sherlock knocked his hand aside as soon as John was ready.

Sherlock lined his cock up at John's entrance and slid into him in one smooth motion.

Now this… This was totally new. The way John's body just seemed to know what it wanted was something John was unbelievably grateful for. But that didn't mean each sensation from here on out wasn't entirely, impossibly, and brilliantly unexplored. Being so completely full of Sherlock, for one, that he could feel the pulse of his prick in his arse. It was strange and wonderful and making him all the more eager for some, any type of movement. So he locked his ankles at the small of Sherlock's back and bore down, forcing him deeply into him.

He panicked briefly beneath the overwhelming pressure, the sheer foreign sensation, but then Sherlock moaned his name in a strangled way and glanced down at him helplessly. He looked like an angel with his white skin and vulnerable eyes. John reached up to touch his face soothingly, and then they were rocking together.

Sherlock was thrusting experimentally, and John was gasping, his face showing a mixture of pleasure and pain. Jim positioned himself behind Sherlock and pushed him down until he was nearly chest to chest with John. He then rolled on a condom, grabbed the lube and prepared Sherlock as carefully as he'd done with John. He bit his lip against the sheer erotica that was Sherlock's baritone voice reverberating in the air. Jim grabbed his narrow hips to still them, lined himself up, and sunk in. All three men groaned as the motion pushed Jim into Sherlock and Sherlock into John.

"Oh fuck," John groaned, the sound loud and probably humiliating, but all he could focus on was the feel of Jim's thrust forcing Sherlock just that much deeper. And when Sherlock hissed, burying his head in the crook of John's neck and clutching at the sheets with whitened knuckles, nothing else in the whole world mattered. Each thrust of Jim's suddenly translated into an impromptu stroke of John's dick between his and Sherlock's bodies.

Jim closed his eyes, taking a moment to appreciate the hot perfection that was being buried in another body. God, he loved this, this rush of penetration, of possession, of using someone else's body. He felt something shift behind him and realised Seb was getting into place. He tried to rearrange his body to accommodate him, but the angle was all wrong.

"I've a better idea," Jim said over his shoulder. "Stand over Sherlock's back." Seb did as he was told, swinging a leg over where Sherlock was pressed to John so he faced Jim. Now his prick was perfectly level with Jim's lips.

This was without a doubt the most obscene situation John had ever been in. When he looked up, he saw Sherlock's pleasure-twisted face and another man's arse looming over that. He had a prick in his arse that was being shoved in deeper by another man fucking the one who was fucking him. God, how was this his life?

The tension became palpable; the promise that this, right here, right now, was going to lead to brilliant, plausibly mind-numbing release was becoming more real than ever before. As eager as he was, and as twisted as the thought might be, John wanted it to last, he wanted to be begging for it, desperate for it, mad for it first. And he wanted to be told when to come. John looked past Sherlock and up at Jim, wondering when he'd become so masochistic.

Sebastian wavered slightly as he lost his balance. Standing on a mattress wasn't the easiest thing, but the sight of three writhing bodies beneath him was all the enticement he needed. Jim peered up at him with eyes as black as sin, sliding slowly forward to wrap his lips around him. Oh, that was good. Seb carded a hand through his dark hair and used it to guide him forward until his prick was deep in his throat. Jim matched the rhythm of his fucking and sucking, thrusting into one only to sink deeply down on another, making three separate men unravel at once.

It was intoxicating. Sherlock wasn't used to being so disconnected from his mental faculties. Each of Jim's thrusts was practically blinding in its sensation, and add into that the feeling of being so deliciously, immaculately surrounded by John, his cock so tightly gripped in the man's body he thought he could feel John's heartbeat… Sherlock groaned. It hadn't been the plan, to enjoy this so much. He'd meant to suffer through it for John's sake, to satisfy Moriarty's twisted infatuation and get him finally off his radar. But this, oh this was perfection. Sherlock attacked John's neck, sucking colour into it, marking him as his own.

Jim swallowed around the thick cock in his mouth and felt the man above him shudder. There were hands in his hair, stroking through it and tugging on it. His hips and head found a steady rhythm, alternately plunging him into Sherlock and taking Seb deeply into him. Pleasure crackled down his spine like electricity. This was irrefutably the best idea he'd ever had. The air rang with deep voices, an intoxicating harmony of lust and so very, undeniably masculine. He placed both hands on the sweaty back beneath him, tracing the bumps of Sherlock's spine, and suddenly gave one long, hard thrust down into pliant flesh.

That thrust, oh shit, _oh fuck_, John felt it in every inch of him, an electric shock that ran hot, so very hot, all the way from his arse to his chest and back down to settle angry and demanding in his cock. And then Sherlock, and subsequently Jim, seemed to thrust even deeper, brushing hard and without warning against his prostate. John felt the noise crawl up his throat but he didn't, couldn't hear it past the blood pounding in his ears. He was close, Jesus, he was so fucking close.

Tremours were working their way through the bodies beneath Jim, and he could hear John and Sherlock murmuring to each other, undoubtedly reassurances and sweet nothings. How very sentimental. He pounded roughly into Sherlock, startling a moan from the man that broke him away from John. Jim popped off Seb long enough to duck down and breathe in his ear, "From the look of your pet, I'd say he's close." Indeed, John was sweaty, panting, his face screwed up with pleasure. "Finish him off, will you? I want to watch."

The look on Sherlock's face was almost pained, stuck between desperately wanting to do just that and stubbornly not wanting to follow Jim's order. The sight of John beneath him, writhing and pleading and clenching around him, was apparently enough to convince the great detective to do as he was told.

Though it took some manoeuvring, Sherlock pushed John's thighs to his chest, slinging a knee over each shoulder, and the change in angle fell perfectly into place.

Suddenly John was howling, "There, right there! Fuck. Yes, fuck, Sherlock!"

Then Sherlock was moving impossibly fast, and Jim was scrambling to accommodate the motion. With one move, he'd thrust into John. With the other, he'd press back onto Jim's cock, making him cry out. The consulting criminal lost himself in it, remaining only cognizant enough to find Seb's cock again and suckle at it, loving the way the sniper grabbed his face and held him still, fucking his mouth.

"Sher—oh shit, Sh-Sherlock, please…" John was groaning, a string of incoherent half-words, Sherlock's name, and curses. Sherlock was pounding so hard into him now. The sound of the bed scraping against the floor due to all the movement was strangely vivid, despite all the other sounds and sensations. John didn't know when he'd closed his eyes, but he was blinking past red-tinted vision when he opened them again to look at the veritable pornography above him, the sight of it all but pushing him over the edge.

Seb came first, thrusting deep into Jim's mouth with a shout that bordered on anguished. Jim swallowed the salty liquid that burst down his throat, releasing the spent cock with a slurping noise only when Seb had finally stilled. The sniper collapsed shakily next to the three entangled men, freeing Jim to do what he'd been longing to. He reached around Sherlock's chest to find John's prick, grasping it and stroking in time with his thrusts. He heard rather than saw John come next, Sherlock's name on his lips. And then there were two. John pulled away with a groan and rolled over to join Seb on the other side of the mattress.

Finally. This was what Jim had been waiting for. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock's broad shoulders and drew them as close as they could get. "It's just you and me now, Sherly," he breathed in his ear. The detective quivered in his arms, and Jim could feel him surrendering to the raw sensation. Jim started out slowly, drawing the whole length of himself out of Sherlock before pressing back in and stopping when he was buried to the root to grind against him in a small circle. Gradually, he picked up the pace, moving in long strokes that made every inch of him touch inside every inch of Sherlock. The detective was whining now, clenching his hands in the sheets as Jim shoved him onto his hands and knees for a better angle. He loved this, laying fully over him, digging his fingers into his slim hips, using his body for his own pleasure. But it wasn't enough.

With a curse, Jim drew back, kneeling on the mattress and dragging Sherlock up with him to sit, impaled, in his lap. Jim slid one hand around his waist and the other around his chest, securing him in place. Then he altered the pattern of his thrusts, just barely rocking into him, the movement fast and designed to stimulate the sensitive head of Jim's cock while hitting Sherlock's prostate in small, rapid movements. The effect was instantaneously. Both men cried out and scrambled to move faster, desperate for more of the deep, burning pleasure. Jim was swearing wildly, and Sherlock was rutting in his lap like an animal, matching his thrusts.

They would have forgotten the other men in the room, but John was mesmerised by the sight of his lover. Sherlock had never looked so beautiful: his head thrown back on Jim's shoulder, his reddened cock standing straight up from his body, his white chest gleaming with sweat and heaving as he struggled to breathe. John couldn't help himself. He reached over with shaking hands, grasped Sherlock's prick, and began to stroke. One, two, three tugs, and Sherlock was screaming as his orgasm ripped through him with visible force.

Jim grit his teeth when Sherlock came, crying a garbled mixture of his name and John's. He rode the detective through it, his thrusts turning into slow, deep presses inside him. When Sherlock began panting, indicating he was finished, Jim thrust in earnest. He had only one objective: getting off. It didn't take long at all. His orgasm was like a bolt of lightning shooting through him, making his nerve endings sing. His body vibrated like taut violin strings, and for one glorious moment everything cut to white noise.

When his vision finally cleared, he pulled out, flopped over, and gasped, "We need to have company more often, Seb."

The laugh escaped John almost without his consent. "That was…" John shook his head, grinning despite himself.

"The last time," Sherlock finished for him.

A twinge of stunned disappointment tightened in John's chest.

"That was the deal," Sherlock added to Jim specifically, but before the criminal could argue, John cleared his throat. "It doesn't _have_ to be the last time… Does it?"

Sherlock looked at him, an eyebrow raised in shock.

"Oooh," Jim said in a high-pitched voice. "Interesting! The pet isn't quite finished playing! I can't say I'd object to a repeat performance." He looked at Seb and asked a question with his eyes. The sniper nodded his consent. "Well, that just leaves Sherly then."

Sherlock looked between them all for a moment before shrugging. "I am amendable to the idea of additional sexual encounters." His tone sounded casual, but they all caught the flush that painted his cheekbones.

Jim clapped. "It's settled then! Sherlock already has a key, so you boys can stop by whenever you fancy a shag. We'll be waiting." He winked.

And they all lived murderously ever after.

...

The end.

...


End file.
